


Two Men In Love

by zoeburchard



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Adventure, Fix it?, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Missing, Multi Chapter, Non Consensual, Partying, Pining, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Sex, Yearning, fuck a decade of separation, inspired by enemies with benefits tag, takes place right after vegas chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28835025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoeburchard/pseuds/zoeburchard
Summary: Theo discovers shortly after arriving in New York that Boris stole The Goldfinch. Filled with anger and desperation, he spends his teen years trying to get back to Boris to get The Goldfinch back. They go on a wild adventure filled with anger, yearning, jealousy and love.
Relationships: Theodore Decker & Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	1. New & Old Homes

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my attempt at a multi-chapter story! Are ya proud?  
> I wanted to post two chapters to start since the first one is a little slow, but I haven't had as much time to write as I thought I would and I'm not a very patient person. 
> 
> The title of this story is the title of a song, as per usual. The song is Two Men In Love by The Irrepressibles (Thanks Spotify Discover Weekly!) The story is not based on the song, but also it applies. It's a beautiful piece if you're interested in some stunning instrumentals and haunting vocals. 
> 
> My headcannon for Hobie is that he's not so oblivious and a little more actively present in Theo's life. And as always when I write Boris, Boris in my brain is 100% fine with who he is as a bisexual man while of course Theo is struggling with being gay. 
> 
> All that being said, this should be 8 chapters if I stick to my outline. I'll try to post once a week at least.   
> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> If I end up making any art for this, you can find it @zebonifus on tumblr and @zoeellendraws on instagram.

In a delusional and fevered state, Theo suffered vivid nightmares, excessive sweating and awkward dreams he couldn’t make sense of. Between the standard dreams of falling ash in deafening silence and heartless rain washing away hope, images of a lanky raven haired boy flashed behind his eyes. The mischievous smile, dark but kind eyes, and a chaste kiss that played on repeat. A kiss that played on repeat. Waking or sleeping, Theo couldn’t get it out of his head. _Why would Boris kiss him?_ Sure- they had fooled around, done things Theo tried hard to forget (he could still feel a rough, boney hand in his hair, fingernails digging into his scalp) but this kiss had been as close to sober as they had ever been. It had to have been some kind of confession, but if so, why didn’t he leave with Theo? Why wouldn’t he just get in the taxi? Theo didn’t have enough consistent and lucid consciousness to analyze it all as thoroughly as he was typically wont to do. Hobie had been kindly offering him every comfort while he suffered through the fever (and withdrawal) brought on by the exhaustion and terror of traveling cross-country to a city he hardly knew anymore with a contraband dog. The cold rain, the all consuming depression of yet again leaving everything he knew and jumping into the unknown, utterly alone.

Perhaps not entirely alone. After all, there was Popchik. The fluffy white dog hadn’t left Theo’s side for more than the necessary amount of time in order to go for a short, daily walk with Hobie and consume the bare minimum sustenance for survival. It’s safe to say, both dog and boy suffered the same depression. Whenever Theo would would awaken, whether from nightmare or horrific daydream, the little dog would gently put his front paws on Theo’s chest and lick the salty sweat from his face. It annoyed and calmed the boy in equal measures. The interaction would always end with Theo tiredly forcing a half smile and patting Popchik on the head before falling back into a restless sleep. Mostly Popper would lay by Theo’s shoulder breathing hot breath in his ear. He imagined this was what it felt like to be Boris, as the older boy had a much deeper connection with the little dog, Popper always choosing to sleep among black curls rather than too-long sandy locks.

On day three back at Hobie’s the fever broke. Theo slept for the entirety of day four and on day five he had finally regained his appetite enough to have some of Hobie’s homemade chicken noodle soup.

“There you go. You should eat if you are able,” he suggested, his voice calm and smooth, as he sat next to Theo on the bed. “No need to discuss anything now, but at some point, when you’re ready, we should talk about how you got here and what has happened. As I said when you first arrived, no one is going to make you leave- you’re welcome in this home as long as you- and the dog- would like to stay.”

Theo paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. “I..I’m—“

“It’s okay, Theo. You’re safe here. Now eat, rest, and when you’re up for it, we’ll talk about everything.” He squeezed Theo’s shoulder in a reassuring manner before leaving him alone with his soup and his thoughts. The footsteps were heavy on the old wooden floors. Theo heard the creak of the stairs as he descended and only then allowed himself to let out a quiet sob.

It had been so long since Theo had experienced genuine kindness he hardly knew how to process it in his brain. So much had happened since he had last seen Hobie, so much had changed. Theo wasn’t even close to the same person he had been and that terrified him. No longer his mother’s son. What if he told Hobie _everything_ and he decided he didn’t want to deal with this new Theo- the Theo that was addicted to drugs, possibly an alcoholic, a thief- all the things that made up a grade-A juvenile delinquent. This was the version of himself he and Boris had built from the hollowed out husk of a broken boy. Nothing left but the same old grief with new and improved unhealthy coping mechanisms.

He didn’t regret his life with Boris, not most of it anyhow. But he feared the truth would scare off his only chance at a family. How could he tell Hobie? Hobie who was so kind to him before he even knew him. Hobie who had let him reconnect with the redheaded girl who represented the same kind of light he had known in his mother. Hobie who had fed him and taught him and even now, nursed him back to some semblance of health (a task that was far greater and more daunting than either Theo or Hobie knew). He couldn’t lose his last chance at a family.

But even still, his heart ached to let it all out. To scream, to cry, to fling himself into the warm comforting arms of anyone who would show him kindness. Of course, the only person whom he had ever felt like he could confide in (since his mother had passed) was gone. It was enough to tear him down. Unable to eat, he thoughtfully placed the bowl of soup on the wooden table at his bedside, rolled over and buried his face in a pillow, body curled up in the fetal position. Popper, hearing the muffled cries, paced nervously back and forth across the bed before settling in the bend between Theo’s thighs and stomach. The warmth of the animals body reminded him of Boris pulling him close in the darkness, holding him protectively until he fell asleep. The sobs became a full body experience, arms and back shaking as he snaked one arm around the dog, holding on tight as though their connection would ground him and make the pain go away. Theo knew there was no chance of sleep that night.

The enticing smell of scrambled eggs and toast drew Theo out of Welty’s old room the next morning- stomach rumbling having not eaten properly in days- and down to the kitchen where Hobie was wearing a canvas colored, well-worn apron, standing over the stove. Popper’s toes clicked on the wood behind him.

“Good morning, Theo. Hungry?” Hobie’s voice was cheerful, calm and wide awake. He was clearly a morning person. Uncomfortable in the familiar, yet new, space he fidgeted with his glasses, slowly stepping around on he hardwood, Popchik excitedly running around his feet, not sure what to do with himself. “Take a seat, food is almost ready.” Wooden spoon in hand, Hobie gestured towards the small table where two plates had been set out. Bone china, clearly very old, with intricate designs that looked worn but beautiful. Hobie’s whole world was worn but beautiful. Theo’s was just worn.

Theo sat down and picked up a fork, turning it over in his hands. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he looked up at Hobie’s back. “Uh, thank you for letting me stay,” he spoke timidly. “I’m sorry…” he didn’t know how to finish that sentence. What was he sorry for? Everything, he supposed, but how do you say that?

Turning his head slightly, his side profile giving Theo a hint of the kind features of his face, Hobie said, “It’s no problem at all.” He shuffled around the kitchen a bit before bringing over the pan with eggs and a plate of toast for them to share. He set butter and jam on the table before taking a seat across from Theo at the small table. “After all, it’s been so quiet around here, it’s nice to have you in the house- reminds me there’s a life outside the workshop,” he remarked smiling that gentle smile that Theo remembered from two years ago. “I get stuck down there, sometimes, what feels like for days.” He took a sip of tea before looking up at Theo’s still form. “Please, eat.”

That was all the invitation Theo needed before he was filling his plate with eggs and piling perfectly browned toast on his plate, lathering it in so much butter and jam it was practically a sandwich. He hardly realized how hungry he was and then it registered- his whole journey to New York he’d hardly eaten, a tight feeling brought on by fear curling around his stomach. Since then, he’d been bed ridden, sweating or puking out the remnants of whatever food Hobie could convince him to try and eat. Eggs and toast never tasted so good in his whole life.

“What’s the dogs name?” Hobie asked, watching with amusement as Theo scarfed down his food.

Mouth full of food, and still shoveling in more, he said without thinking, “Popchik.”

“Popchik. That’s an interesting name.”

Theo swallowed his food, “Well, it’s Popper- that’s what Xandra called him.” He paused before continuing, “But Boris always called him Popchik. It seems to fit a little better.” Picking up another piece of toast, jam oozing off the side, he continued to eat, eyes down towards the table.

“Ah, I see. It’s a good name.” Hobie tossed the white dog a piece of buttered bread, not unlike Boris. Theo watched the ball of fluff joyfully and hungrily devour the bread. “Who is Boris?”

His heart sped up, red washed over his cheeks and he gripped the edge of the table like it was a cliff and he would plummet to his death if he let go.

“Boris is…” and with those two words the dam broke- everything that had happened poured out of Theo in an unstoppable waterfall of words. Everything from when they first met, to the emptiness of the houses that surrounded his, to his father’s demise, and he even told Hobie about all the drugs he and Boris had done to forget their sorrows and cure their boredom with the desert. He left out most of their thieving, all of the more intimate details of their strange relationship and of course, the bit about The Goldfinch being in his possession. As the whole story flowed out of him he felt a weight leave him, Hobie sitting quietly and listening, occasionally asking clarifying, non judgmental questions. For the first time since leaving Boris behind in the desert he felt truly safe.

__________________________________________________

The sheets still smelled exactly like Theo. Boris was pretty sure the shirt he had been wearing for 4 days straight was also Theo’s. He had left so much behind in the bedroom they shared at Theo’s dad’s house when he got into the taxi, Boris didn’t know what was his and what was Theo’s. Boris had gone home that night after saying goodbye to his best friend and crawled into his bed that smelled of cigarettes, snacks and a boy with sandy hair that was twenty five hundred miles away.

The boy with no real home had buried his face in the sheets, feeling the lingering effects of the acid and wished he could tell Potter all about the light he saw coming from the woven threads of the fabric, the light that danced up around him and made him feel like he was floating. He thought about the thin chapped lips he had kissed and how his own lips tingled for what felt like hours afterwards. The way the soft cheek had felt against his palm and he could intimately recall the sensation of every tiny pore of Theo’s skin under his thumb. The younger boy had looked at him with such confusion and desperation that Boris had wanted in equal measures to stay and leave. Of course, there was only one real option- he couldn’t go with Theo. His best friend would hate him as soon as he realized what he had done. So as he stood there with Theo in front of the house that was only ever a home in so much as he and Theo had been together, he took one last thing from Theo- a quick kiss that was supposed to say everything he couldn’t put into words. Everything he had felt since the first moment he had seen the quiet boy, the boy that was an outsider in the same way he was. A kiss that also said _I’m sorry._ This would be the last time he would ever see Theo, he felt that in his bones, so he had to make it count.

After days of partying to forget, days of being the single most popular guy in the whole school, the guy with the good drugs, free drugs, _Xandra’s drugs,_ Boris lay at the bottom of the sandy pool at his dad’s house staring into a cloudless blue abyss coming down from about 5 different highs. All he could think about was a small bird chained up and stashed in his bedroom. The little bird that had kept him from following his best friend. The little bird that chained him to this place, this time and this life he didn’t want. He wanted nothing more than to pack up the painting, steal a pack of cigarettes, of which he’d run out of days ago, and make his way to New York, to Theo. But the money was gone, the drugs were gone. All he had left was a painting he could never sell (he had looked up: 'how to sell famous painting’ on google), painful memories of the happiest days of his life and one half of a pair of emerald earrings- yet another thing he had stolen from the boy he called his closest friend.

It had been a week since Theo left when his father came to him and said he was going back to Ukraine. For once he didn’t smell of alcohol, his face serious, tired lines making him look older than Boris had ever seen him. “Ok,” Boris had said, deadpan. “I will stay.” It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t a request but a fact. There was little to no attachment between the two men and Mr. Pavlikovsky knew it. They didn’t talk about it further. Instead, Boris’ father placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, squeezed it tightly and nodded sternly.

That night Boris had stumbled around the streets, drunk, with a bottle of vodka in one hand and his backpack stuffed with everything important to him, including The Goldfinch, in the other. The street lights felt like strobe lights as he walked in and out of their flood. Unable to process the shifting glare, he shut his eyes until he wandered into a curb, tripping and falling face first into the ground. “Fuck,” he muttered, half hearted, not particularly bothered that he had fallen, more so that he would have to get up at some point. That time was not upon him. Instead he laid on the ground, cheek on the pavement, warm blood pooling around his face, vodka bottle rolling down the slight incline of the street, his backpack forgotten somewhere beside him. He could sleep here. The pavement was still warm from the heat of the day. His body melted into it, he felt it caress him, fold around him like a hammock swallowing him up. Before sleep took him entirely, he thought of Theo as he tried to focus his eyes on the moonless sky above.

It wasn’t until the black of his shirt had consumed so much heat he thought he might burn alive that he woke up, cheek still pressed into the pavement, blood caked on his skin. He groaned loudly at the light and the throbbing in his head. The sound of a car rolling close to his ear gave him reason to turn his head. The Lexus parked in the driveway and Xandra emerged.

“Hey kid, what the fuck are you doing here? Theo is gone.” _Friendly as ever._ Boris pushed himself up, noticing the forgotten backpack and snatching it close to his chest, suddenly grateful for the eerily empty houses around them. Xandra was visibly disturbed by the sight of his blooded up face, making him look even more disheveled and homeless than normal.

“I…uh.. took nap. Pavement more comfortable than bed. You should try sometime,” he said with all the charm he could muster. She rolled her eyes but gave a half smile, lipstick wearing off from her night working at the bar.

“I guess you should probably come inside. You look like shit.” Boris wasn’t quite sure how he ended up in front of Theo’s house the prior night, but he was suddenly glad, especially now that Xandra was here. He had always liked her, even if she seemed to have a particular indifference towards him.

Weakly he got to his feet, nearly falling over in the process, slinging the backpack over his shoulder and following her into the house.

“So what are you doing here, Boris?” She poured herself a glass of water and a second one, less than gently plopping it in front of Boris along with a wet rag for him to clean his face.

He shrugged nonchalantly as he scrubbed the blood off of his cheek, “My father is going back to Ukraine, I am not. Decided to go for walk and now here I am.” She raised an eyebrow, only mildly interested in what he had to say as she made her way to the couch in the living room, lighting a cigarette on the way.

He sensed he had overstayed his limited welcome. When he had finished cleaning his face he examined the towel. He couldn’t help but laugh at himself. He turned towards Xandra, “Thank you for water, is very kind. Will drink, then go.” He brought the glass to his lips slowly, feeling a certain comfort in being in the place where he had spent so much time with Theo. While Theo had never liked it here, to Boris it felt like more of a home than any other place.

“You got somewhere to stay?” Her voice changed. The usually disinterested tone muddled with slight annoyance was gone and the question almost sounded like a request. She took a long drag of the cigarette, smoke swirling around her as she breathed out.

Boris looked at her curiously, a smile playing at his lips, “Was going to ask kids from school, see if someone has extra couch.”

And the change was gone. She flipped the tv on, volume low, and watched as a newscaster talked about the day’s crimes. “The house is empty, obviously, the upstairs bedroom is available. You will need to help out and pay a bit of rent. And fucking clean up once in a while- you two were disgusting.” She changed the channel rapidly, aimlessly as she smoked. Then she turned to make eye contact, “And if you **ever** take my drugs again, that will be the end, you hear me?”

A big smile crept across his face as he nodded. “Thank you, Xandra. Very kind, very generous. Will find job soon and promise- I will clean,” _once in a while_ he added under his breath.

“Whatever. Don’t be loud, don’t touch my cigarettes, and don’t go in my room.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Hobie took a long sip of his now very cold tea. The two had been talking for hours. By the time Theo had finished telling Hobie everything there was to tell about the last two years of his life and answering Hobie’s questions as they went, it was already dark outside. They had long since moved to the living room, sat together on the couch, Hobie leaning casually in one corner, Theo sitting bolt upright, feet flat on the floor on the other side of the couch.

When the stories were over, when silence filled the air, they sat in the warmth of the cluttered old room breathing quiet, even breaths. Theo pushed his glasses up his nose, looking up from the spot his eyes had been glued to on the floor, gaging Hobie’s reaction. The older man wore a calm, unknowable face with the kindest eyes a man could have. “It sounds like your Boris, for all the trouble he caused, was a good friend.”

Theo shook his head. He was a good friend, but he knew Boris had lied. “I don’t know. He said he would come, but I know he won’t. I made him promise and that was stupid.” His voice grew ever more quiet as he spoke. “And he stopped texting me back so…” He missed Boris more than he could express. The missing hurt, the anger at the hurt made him feel sick, the confusion as to why he missed Boris quite so much muddled up his brain. Boris was a disaster that he shouldn’t want in his life, but Theo was a disaster too and that somehow bonded them together.

“Well. You are both young and traveling across the country at that age alone with little money is unlikely— frankly, it’s remarkable that you were able to do such a thing without much incident.” He took another sip of the cold tea. “You need to call Xandra in the morning and let her know you’re safe. And I will help you as much as you need, but the drugs need to stop. You are very smart, Theo, there is no sense ingesting these substances that harm your mind while it is still developing. We’ll get through that together.” Theo nodded. He understood what Hobie was saying. While he was desperate for any and all the intoxicants he and Boris had done together, he knew a life with Hobie would not be the life he had with Boris. It was a sacrifice he had to make despite the constant craving.

The big, heavy, reassuring hand of his older friend once again fell on his shoulder. “This can be your home if you’d like it to be, Theo. You are welcome here.” And after the events of the day, after telling this kind man everything he had done and everywhere he had been, this was the final straw. He broke down and curled into Hobie, burying his face Hobie’s shoulder as he sobbed. They held onto each other tightly. Hobie patiently stroked Theo’s back whispering comforting words until he calmed down.

When his voice was even enough to speak, Theo said, “Thank you. Thank you for everything, Hobie.” He sat back up, adjusted his glasses and straightened his shirt. “If it’s alright, I think I’ll go to sleep now.”

“Good idea. Get some rest. And, Theo?”

“Yes?”

“If you ever need to talk about anything, I am here, I will not judge you and I will try to help you however I am able. You understand?” Hobie looked at him with a knowing look Theo didn’t yet understand. Quickly he nodded before muttering a soft good night and heading up the stairs, Popper trailing close behind him.

__________________________________________________________

Boris was sitting in the living room half way watching television with Xandra when the phone rang. He didn’t think much of it when the tone initially hit his ears. He hardly noticed as his overly tanned roommate sighed loudly as she walked to the kitchen to put an end to the incessant ringing. “Hello?” The annoyance in her tone was unmistakable. She balanced the phone between her shoulder and ear and poured herself another glass of wine. “Theo?” Boris’ heart skipped a beat, his eyes went wide. “So you’re not dead.” Sitting up straighter in the chair Theo’s dad used to occupy, he strained to try and hear the conversation on the other side of the line without looking eager. The television was far too loud to hear any more than Xandra’s side of the call. “I guess that’s good. You and your shit friend took all my drugs and that was pretty shitty.” Boris laughed to himself at that. He was a shit friend and they _had_ taken all her drugs. And her money. He imagined Theo must be apologizing. “Sure, whatever. Good luck I guess. Yeah. Bye.” And that was it. Theo was gone once more and Boris felt like his heart was being ripped out all over again.

“Potter made it to New York?” He asked, trying hard to sound only casually interested. Boris had seen the few texts Theo had sent to Kotku’s phone. He had even texted back when he was high out of his mind partying with half his high school classmates on The Strip. But after that, for fear of Theo’s anger when he discovered his painting was gone, he blocked the number and told Kotku not to let him use her phone.

“That’s what he said,” she said plainly, lighting a cigarette and falling back into the couch, wine glass in hand.

They both turned their attention back to the screen and sat in silence watching. Nothing that danced across the screen could bring Boris back from the rabbit hole his brain had sent him down.

He imagined Theo in New York, happy and carefree, a Theo he had never fully known. From the stories Theo had told, he tried to picture Hobie, the very calm and collected, very homosexual, woodworker and fixer of old things. He was sure Theo had no clue his new guardian was gay, and while it didn’t really matter, Boris found it amusing that he could put the pieces together having never met the man, but Theo could not. He was always sort of blind to that sort of thing despite all the nights they had spent limbs tangled together, clothing optional, minds fully intoxicated on substances and each other. While it pained him to think of it, he knew Theo would try to explain away the kiss Boris had given him, the one kiss he would remember, as some kind of friendly gesture rather than admit what they both knew it was.

He missed Theo more than he had ever missed a place or a person in his life. More than he missed his own mother, in truth. And perhaps he would have felt guilty, but he had smoked a rather potent joint provided to him by Kotku and guilt wasn’t one of those emotions that cropped up when he was high. Sentimentality was more his strong suit when weed was in the picture.

Boris imagined himself showing up to the door with the green bell Theo had described. He imagined Theo, smiling and saying ‘Boris, love of my life, I am so happy to see you!’ But that was a fantasy that would never happen for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which being that he had stolen Theo’s most valuable possession. It had been so beautiful and the bird so sad. To him it looked like Theo and Theo looked like the bird. He would have given it back if Theo had stayed, but now he was gone and Boris had a piece of his heart. Knowing he would now never reside within Theo’s heart in any place of esteem or love, holding on to this small part of him felt important, significant and necessary. The only connection he would ever have to to the boy that filled his heart then ripped it right out of his chest.

He was jostled from his daydreaming by Xandra’s raspy voice, “Oh yeah— I know a guy that’s got some work for you so you can start pulling your weight around here.”

Shaking his hair out of his eyes he said, “Great. What work?”

Mr. Silver wasn’t so scary when you were on his good side, Boris quickly learned. He had needed an assistant, someone to run errands and take care of day to day things in his shady, but masterfully conducted business dealings. Boris was somehow the perfect candidate. Charming, easy to talk to, threatening enough when he needed to be. In only a week Boris had learned more about business and how the real world worked than he had in all of his schooling. Though, it had always been that way for Boris. He always learned more from the people he met, the interactions he had than he would ever from school books. Boris thought, at this point, he was as happy as he could reasonably expect to be under the circumstances.

______________________________________________

Theo almost felt he was suffocating under the heavy green duvet cover on Welty’s old bed. _Why did one man need such an awfully big bed?_ He had thought to himself. He hardly knew what to do with all the space, being so used to sharing his bed with a taller boy and a dog. He hardly knew how to enter the world of sleep without a bony knee jabbing his thigh, a sharp elbow in his ribs or a surprisingly tender hand wrapped around his waist. Curling Popchik to his chest, he squeezed the dog tightly, rubbing his nose into the soft white fur. But he just smelled like dog and wet pavement. Popper let out a small yelp when Theo squeezed a little too hard, springing to his feet and curling up instead on the pillow next to Theo. The pillow where Boris should have been.

There was no doubt in Theo’s mind he would never see Boris again. Especially in those first days back in New York, it was impossible not to think about him. Every possession he had brought with him- from the shirts in his bag to Popchik- had been shared between the two boys. Every single thing was a constant reminder that his best friend was gone from his life, possibly forever. Whenever that fact would return to his mind a knot would form in his throat, his stomach would turn and the feeling in his chest would be completely inexplicable. He didn’t understand this full body reaction to losing Boris. It’s not like he was dead and he was just _Boris._ Why did it matter so much to him?

Seeking the comfort he had often sought back in Vegas, Theo reached under the bed for the duffle bag containing his most valuable possession, that couldn’t really be called his. Before pulling the painting out of the bag he padded softly over to the door and made sure it was shut tight. He didn’t have the key to the room to lock it, but it was late enough Hobie was surely asleep. That didn’t stop his nerves from running wild, but he needed the comforting presence of the little bird, that feeling of being drawn somehow closer to his mother when he looked at it. For someone so young, his heart had been broken in so many different ways. He felt this painting was all he had left of the life he’d had, of the person he’d been and the love he hadn’t let himself feel since his mother passed.

When he was sure the door was secure, he moved back to sit on the bed, Popper still perched on his pillow. Slowly, reverently he began to open the wrapped up painting. First he carefully undid the tape, removing it and the bubble wrap that encased the newspaper beneath. Then he gently, and with great anticipation, began to unfold the newspaper that protected the bird. The two year old headlines rung out in his mind, taking him back to a time he was scarcely conscious enough to remember. He felt an uncomfortable detachment, as though it was someone else who had lived that life.

The painting felt strange in his hands, heavier somehow. As he removed the last piece of newspaper his breath caught in his throat and silent tears fell from his eyes. Desperately he wanted to scream, but knew he could not. The red civics book in his hands was the farthest thing from The Goldfinch and Theo didn’t understand. He turned the book over and over in his hands as though it would magically turn it into the painting, as though it would suddenly make it all make sense. Heart racing a million miles a minute he flipped to the front cover to see in unmistakable scrawling handwriting ‘Boris Volodymyrovych Pavlikovsky’ and Theo understood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theo processes Boris' betrayal, settles into his new life with Hobie as Boris gets a taste of the sweet sweet crime life. What happens when Theo finally figures out how to contact his old friend?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter a week, she said. It's gonna be easy, she said.   
> Sorry it took so long~ here's chapter 2!
> 
> Imagining Hobie as a bit more of a parental presence than he is in the book, taking a bit more of an active interest in Theo's life. This will come into play in future chapters. 
> 
> If you enjoy it, leave kudos, comments, or scream about it into the void.   
> Thank you so much for reading! <3

The warm light from the halogen street lamp spilled over the crimson cover of the civics textbook. Theo thought about the hard shadows that had fallen over Boris’ face, lit by a similar bulb, the last time he had seen him. The light made him seem dramatic and a little mysterious which felt correct to Theo. Then the kiss. It had been a Judas kiss and it finally made sense why Boris hadn't texted him back, why all communication had been cut off after two years of being nearly inseparable. Shaking his head, fingers digging in to the soft skin of his face in desperation, lips forming the word _no_ on repeat. Theo had wanted it all to mean so much more while at the same time finding a way to ignore it- everything he had ever felt with and for Boris. It had all meant nothing to his wild friend, after all. Theo slammed the book hard into the bed, pounded it with both fits, leaned over and sobbed into the cover. It’s not that he couldn’t believe Boris would do this- everything he knew about Boris told him this is exactly the kind of thing he would do. The part that was so unbelievable was how Boris had known about the painting in the first place. Theo had never told him, and while they lived by the code of what’s-mine-is-yours, it was hidden in a place where Boris had no reason to look. Beside the painting, they had truly shared _everything._

The fury inside of him was close to boiling over. More than anything, he felt completely and utterly heartbroken. Whatever small space had been left within his heart to house love after his mother died, the space his dearest friend had occupied, that space was gone now. If he thought the physical separation from his friend was devastating, the emotional loss was one hundred times more painful. A betrayal of the highest measure. The last piece of his mother- gone.

Boris would’t know how to take care of the painting. He would probably try to sell it for drugs and get caught. Would he turn Theo in? Would he retain his last shred of dignity and not tell on Theo only for the police to puzzle it together and deduct that he had gotten the painting from Theo? The faltering of his breath made him dizzy. He could hardly see straight as he grabbed the civics book, pulled open the bedroom door, flew down the stairs and outside the apartment.

The rain fell as hard as it had been the day he’d arrived. It meant no difference and how apt that it would rain the day he’d lost his mother physically and the day he’d lost her again, this time symbolically. Violently he hurled the book at the ground, water splashing up around it. Kicking it over and over, ripping the pages, breaking the binding. With one particularly forceful bare-foot punt the book flew through the air landing a few feet away. What was left of the cover fell open to reveal the page Boris had written- in his terrible, ugly, childish handwriting- his full name. Theo, seeing it once more dropped to his knees gathering the book in his arms as if it was all he had left in the world. Hands drifted across the battered book, tenderly embracing all its broken edges- his glasses had fogged up, heart pounding in his fingers. Cold caressed his cheeks and the tip of his nose. Breath fell unevenly from his lips as he cried harder than he had since he lost his mother. With the rain drenching his night clothes, generously given to him by Hobie, he couldn’t move from that spot on the sidewalk where he sat cradling the only thing connecting him to the last ounce of love he had had left to give.

A soft hand landed on his shoulder, non judgmental, not looking for answers, only offering kindness and affection to a fractured heart. Theo hadn’t heard him approach and only vaguely heard the voice as it softly spoke, “Let’s go inside, Theo, before you get sick again.” Theo was hardly conscious as Hobie helped him to his feet and guided him back into the warmth of the cluttered old flat.

_______________________

Mr. Silver became like a mob boss father to Boris- teaching him how to drive, how to manipulate people and situations in his favor, how to impress the right people. And the money- the money was good. Boris was making enough money to keep a constant supply of cigarettes in his pockets, decent vodka in the freezer and a steady flow of drugs for the leech friends that distracted him from thinking about the one friend he really wanted to spend time with.

There was no going back and he knew it. All hope of friendship with Theo, or anything else, was gone. While he thought of Theo every day, especially when he would sneak off into the room they used to share to cradle the painting to his chest, he drowned those thoughts with alcohol, preferring the hazy world of intoxication to the very real reality that he had totally and completely fucked up.

Boris spent his time the only way he knew how- doing exactly what he wanted with little care for rules or guidelines. With his father gone and Xandra entirely uninterested in what he did with his time (so long as he was quiet and helped pay the bills) the only person Boris cared to impress was Mr. Silver.

Boris had been working for Mr. Silver for several weeks. As he always had, he wore dark clothing, clothing pillaged from his and Theo’s father’s closets. The oversized shirts and coats, pants three sizes too big, holes in the knees and thighs- it wasn’t ‘professional’. The day before a particularly important meeting, Boris showed up looking as Boris did with bracelets up his arm, nails painted black, ratty old t-shirt with the neck stretched out so far his collar bones were showing and Mr. Silver had enough. Boris had laughed at his boss’ frustration but didn’t complain when Mr. Silver put a wad of cash in his hands, telling him to buy some new fucking clothes. There was somewhere around five hundred dollars cash in his hands. Looking at the all the bills his first thought was ‘Should split cash with Potter. Can have fancy meal--’ before remembering Theo was gone and his stomach was full.

His second thought was- drugs. Never Mr. Silver’s supply, he was smarter than that, but he could go to Kotku, while they weren’t together anymore, she would still hook him up for the right price. Mr. Silver, watching the wheels turn in Boris’ brain, seemed to come to this conclusion at the same time, sighing and telling Boris to get in sleek black Lincoln- they were going shopping.

While he was intelligent, good at his job, Mr. Silver knew he was addicted to anything and everything he could get his spindly fingers on. A pile of crisp bills would only go towards more substances that could get the boy as high as the Eiffel Tower. Plus, the stupid kid wouldn’t know how to dress himself anyways. 

“Look, kid. You don’t have to look like those stuck up suits we’re always dealing with, but you can’t look so—“ he gestured to Boris’ attire, “like this. You see, when we dress well it shows confidence, it suggests power. When we present ourselves as business men we gain their trust, their respect and it’s easier to get what we want. You understand, kid?” Boris had never held a particular affinity for the way he dressed, it was mostly out of convenience and necessity (and the girls at school found it endlessly entertaining to paint Boris’ nails).

With Mr. Silver’s help Boris’ closet looked very nearly like the closets of cartoon characters he and Theo had seen on TV- a row of the same thing over and over. Black pants, black button downs, two pairs of Italian black leather shoes (at the insistence of Mr. Silver saying something about how shoes transform a man’s body language and attitude) and a couple of fitted black suit jackets that didn’t totally drown him. _Look as serious as Potter now!_ he had thought checking himself out in the mirror back at Xandra’s house. He fiddled with the cuffs trying to figure out how to button them with one hand, failing, and instead rolling the cuff up to his elbow.

Boris felt like he was choking. The shirt buttoned all the way to the top with a tie didn’t feel quite right, even though that’s how Mr. Silver suggested he dress. Kindly he had allowed Boris choose his own clothes, offering guidance as to what would be appropriate for their line of work. Boris took the tie off, throwing it on the ground and began to unbutton his crisp, clean new shirt. He stopped when he reached the bottom of his sternum. Looking in the mirror he decided _this_ was his style. This is how he’d dress. And next time Theo saw him, just maybe, he’d be able to forgive him, even a little bit. 

The kids at school might think it strange a 16 year old dressing this way, the overnight and total change in his appearance, but Boris never cared much for what other people thought of him. A trait he had picked up from constantly being ‘the new kid’ everywhere he went. For the first couple of moves Boris had tried to fit in, he was very young, stealing clothes that helped him look the part. However, his unplaceable accent, wild hair and intelligence that always seemed to surpass those around him, he stuck out like a sore thumb and back then, he hated it.

Mr. Silver had ended up paying for most of the clothes with a credit card, but never took the cash back. After purchasing a few snacks- mostly candy- and a couple of silver rings that caught his eye, there had been enough cash left to get a simple silver chain. Standing in front of the mirror, Boris found himself sliding his fingers up and down the shiny metal, landing on the stones he had hung on it- beautiful glistening emeralds. _Will see you again someday, Potter._

__________

Two weeks of frantically texting the number he had for Boris produced no results. Since the first and only check-in text, he had heard nothing from the older teen. Theo had even worked up the courage to call a couple of times, both calls completely skipping over the voicemail to a pre-recorded computerized voice telling him the mailbox was full and to try again later. After the second attempt, Theo nearly smashed the shitty flip phone Boris had given him. He had called Boris’ house phone after texting non stop the day after he discovered the civics book only to find that the number had been disconnected. Maybe Boris wasn’t even in Vegas anymore. Theo had no way of knowing.

Flopped across the desk in the shop where he was supposed to be doing homework, he stared at the phone screen hoping a text would appear. Theo had nearly given up. Without the phone numbers for any of his classmates, he had no connection to Vegas other than Boris- who it was impossible to get ahold of and might not even live there anymore. If he was truly gone, the painting would be lost to Theo forever.

“Theo,” Hobie’s soft voice called up from the shop below. Theo tossed the phone on top of his math homework and made his way down the stairs, two steps at a time. “Look at her. Isn’t she beautiful?” Hobie ran his hands across a beaten and worn old buffet table like it was a prized stallion. Theo couldn’t help his lips stretch into a small smile- the piece was beautiful, if not in desperate need of love.

The gentleness of his touch, the way he so clearly respected the original craftsmanship of the piece- Theo admired his passion and dedication. It was fascinating to behold. “I would love your help with this piece. It’s going to be a fun challenge.” That had Theo smiling ear to ear. It was the best part of his days, working with Hobie in the shop, giving new life to old things, listening to Hobie’s stories while they worked.

“Welty and I were in Paris visiting our 5th antique shop of the day. It had been raining and we were soaking wet. Welty was trying to shake out the umbrella and I was trying to pull him inside the shop.” He paused, chuckling to himself as the memory took shape in his mind. Theo noticed his eyes glazed over. He was often like this when talking about Welty. “As I pulled him inside, both of us laughing, the shopkeeper rushed up shouting at us in French. I don’t speak a lick of French, but Welty knew enough to get by. Ah, I remember he had a ridiculous mustache, the kind that cartoon villains have,” with his fingers he drew the curling shape on his upper lip with a smile, “He said we had to leave because the rain on our clothes would drip and ruin the furniture. He started pushing my back, ramming me into Welty who toppled over,” Hobie’s laugh was a joyous but far-off sound, like he was in another world, another time, “right out the door into an enormous puddle, splashing myself and the shopkeeper. We couldn’t stop laughing. The man was soaked and dripping wet, just as we had been. We were already drenched to the bone, so we weren’t so bothered. My, did we get a kick out of that.” His eyes glistened, lips turned up as he refocused his attention to the wood beneath his fingertips.

“This here, Theo, is a dovetail joint.”

That night Theo sat in bed, Popchik curled up on the pillow next to him, as he traced over the handwriting in the mangled, waterlogged civics book with the tip of his finger. Maybe this was some kind of god, the universe- whatever- telling him it was time to let go? The pain of losing his mother had colored his world for so long he hardly knew how to wake up in the morning without thinking about her. The Goldfinch had been his connection to her, his connection to her life and her love. It was as though her life force had transferred into the painting when she died and then instead of letting her go, letting her move on, he trapped the painting, the bird, and his mother in newspaper and bubble wrap, shoving them all behind his bed. At least with Boris, maybe they would find the light? But how could he let go?

A soft knock on the door brought Theo out of his trance. “Come in.”

Hobie opened the door a crack, peeking in to see Theo sitting in bed, hugging a book to his chest. “Just checking in. Is it alright if I sit?” Theo readjusted so his legs were crossed under him, waking up Popchik, who stood, huffed indignantly, turned in a circle and laid back down.

“Thank you for all your help in the shop today. You’re getting a lot better,” Hobie said as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah— thank you for teaching me,” Theo spoke quietly, still not used to an adult being not only interested, but invested in his growth and development. “It’s fun working with you.” He shifted awkwardly, trying to slide the blanket up around the book without being too obvious.

But it was obvious. Hobie reached out and lightly touched the back cover that was facing him. “This is the book from that night?” Theo nodded. “It’s special to you?” He nodded again. Theo had told Hobie about Boris, not everything, but he knew how close they were. In that moment, desperate for someone to understand at least part of what he was going through, after seeing the look in his eyes as he had talked about Welty earlier that day, Theo tilted the book down towards Hobie, opening the front cover that was holding on by only a couple strings of the binding.

Hobie hadn’t asked, he hadn’t prodded, but Theo knew he cared about him and for that he felt comfortable sharing little parts of his life. The writing had gotten smudged a little in the rain, but the name was there, plain as day. Gently, Hobie took the book and turned it around to inspect the letters. “Have you been able to get ahold of him?” The question took Theo by surprise. It must have shown on his face as Hobie said, “I’ve seen you staring at that phone a lot, poking at it all the time. If you need help, just ask.”

He wasn’t used to an adult actually paying attention to him or his actions. In Vegas, he could get away with anything. Even with his mom, who worked a lot and often left Theo to his own devices, he mostly did what he pleased without too much question.

“No,” he looked down at his empty hands on top of the green blanket. “His house phone has been disconnected, he won’t respond to my texts—“ he paused, sucking in a sharp breath, trying not to cry in front of Hobie. “He doesn’t want to talk to me, Hobie.” But he couldn’t keep it in. His body fell forward to the older man’s shoulder, who let the boy cling to him, claw at his intricately patterned silk shirt, soaking the shoulder with salty water. “ _Fuck,”_ was all he could choke out.

“You said the area you lived in was a fairly small community? Maybe Xandra would know something— or someone, that might be able to help you get in touch? I’m sure he misses you too. From the stories you’ve told me, you two were very close.” Theo sobbed harder and buried his face deeper into Hobie’s shoulder. Shifting so he could wrap a comforting arm around Theo, he whispered, “That kind of friendship doesn’t die overnight.”

___________________________________

Boris had all but dropped out of high school. As the months went on he was increasingly preoccupied with work for Mr. Silver. He’d gone from his assistant to his right hand man. More and more frequently he sent Boris to meet with clients, collect debts, and pick up product. It was like he had been made for a life of crime. The natural charm he possessed garnered much respect and love from everyone he interacted with. In all truth, the job was easy and he loved it.

He frequently found himself at night clubs, despite being underage. Rarely was he there for pleasure, but instead conducting Mr. Silver’s business. It made him feel powerful, important.

In the middle of July, 106 degrees outside, Boris found himself in a seedy club just off the strip. The walls were dark, but with none of the normal atmospheric lights- being that it was the middle of the day- you could see all the grime on the walls, the floors- the floors that your shoes stuck to as you walked. The air conditioning must have been out as it was hotter than death valley inside. Boris could feel the sweat forming all over his body. God, he hated the sun.

As if he wasn’t swimming in his own salty sweat, Boris sauntered up to the bar where he found a man cleaning glasses. “Hello,” he flashed a winning smile as the man looked towards him, continuing his task. “Looking to speak to Jack Payne? Is he around?”

The bartenders lips formed a tight line before responding, “Yeah, he’s back in his office. Aren’t you a little young to be in here?” Putting the glass he’d been cleaning down, both arms out, he leaned on the bar, curious about the young man who’d just walked in.

He shook the hair out of his eyes, regretting it immediately as he saw a bead of sweat fly through the air, “I work for Naaman Silver. We have business with Mr. Payne.” The heat was throwing him off his game. His composure was faltering.

With a large scarred up hand, the bartender rubbed his temples before taking a rag from behind the bar and wiping away his own sweat. “Alright, kid. Come on.”

Following behind, they weaved through the grimy establishment until they arrived at a purple door. The bartender knocked sharply. “Someone here to see you, Jack!” He yelled through the door.

“God, not now!” Came a voice from the other side just as the door opened to reveal a tall man that must have been in his forties, clearly exasperated, with long black hair. It seemed as though he was about to sock the bartender in the face until he saw Boris standing slightly behind him, lips turned in a half smirk. Everything about him instantly softened, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Who is this?” He asked, voice deep and intrigued.

Quickly Boris extended his hand, “Boris Pavlikovsky- work with Naaman Silver.”

Shaking Boris hand tightly but briefly, he turned in toward his office, peering back at the young man. Despite the heat, Boris shivered uncomfortably under his gaze, something in his mind telling him to run, but he pushed it to the back of his mind as he stepped into the small office.

“Give a shout if you need me,” spoke the bartender, looking more at Boris than Jack, who leaned on his desk, half sitting.

“Ed—“ the bartender glanced back, a sudden tiredness washing over him, “shut the door.”

_______________________________________

Life with Hobie was quiet and easy. He had rules, but they weren’t too difficult to follow. The hardest had been getting and staying clean. But with lots of help and consistent therapy- paid for from Theo’s trust fund- he had managed to stay clean for nearly a year. Between school- which he was actually starting to enjoy- and working in the shop with Hobie, learning everything he could about antiques, he felt for the first time in a long time that he was moving forward instead of constantly falling backwards into a pit of despair. Nightmares still plagued him. On nights when it was particularly bad, he would pull the old civics book out of his nightstand (he had wrapped it up in a shirt he’d found in his bag that he was pretty sure belonged to Boris, at least it smelled like him), hugging it tightly to his chest while Popchik nuzzled his forehead until he would fall asleep again.

He wouldn’t say he was exactly happy, but he was content. By some stroke of luck (or clever networking on Hobie’s part) Theo ended up at the same high school as Andy giving him one friend in the world again.

He hadn’t forgotten about Boris and The Goldfinch, but in his mind, both were lost. He’d spent a solid three months trying everything he could think of to find Boris or catch word of The Goldfinch back in the world- both to no avail. Boris must have gone back to Ukraine with his dad and god knows what happened to the painting. It haunted him that after everything the painting had been through, that after all it had survived, Theo was the one that had snuffed out its light.

He didn’t talk about this with anyone, not his therapist, not Andy- no one. Theo hadn’t even told Andy about Boris or all the mischief they had gotten up to together in Vegas. Andy and Theo didn’t get up to too much trouble apart from the occasional school fight- usually some of the seniors picking on him and Andy- where Theo, who had grown a considerable amount within the past year, finally felt confident enough to fight back.

On a particularly cold Thursday the two friends were walking to class, shoulders pressed together in attempt to leech off each other’s limited warmth. “Fuck- I missed seasons in Vegas, but I didn’t miss the fucking cold.” Theo pulled his glasses off to clean the lenses that had fogged up.

“I think I’d kill for a desert right about now. This weather is too much.” Tugging his jacket tighter around him, eyes on the ground trying not to slip on the icy sidewalk, he completely missed what was coming.

They felt the cold cement make contact with their cheeks before they saw the group of four senior boys- the ones who constantly terrorized them- waltz up, laughing jovially. “Hey queers, can’t even walk straight, huh?” A boot made contact with Theo’s ribs and he heard Andy cry out beside him.

“Fuck you!” Quickly he grabbed the leg that had kicked him, tugging hard. He could hardly see without his glasses and made to put them on as the older boy fell on his ass, only to find the lenses smashed, glass cutting into his hand. “You broke my glasses, you dickwad!” The three still standing held Theo down before he could attempt to get up. He might have gotten taller, but his limbs remained thin and weak. The fist that struck him square in the jaw was a lightning fast blur to his blind eyes.

“Stop! Go away! We didn’t do anything to you, we’ve never done anything to you- leave us alone!” Andy screamed pushing at the much larger students as hard as he could.

A heavy backhand slap knocked Andy back to the ground, “Don’t you touch me, you fag! You and your faggy boyfriend make me sick.”

Theo’s head spun. He barely heard the words as another fist made contact with his nose. There was a static that surrounded him almost like snow. His head lulled back and the last thing he heard was someone with a much deeper voice than Andy’s yelling ‘stop’.

______________________________

“What’s Naaman sending a little thing like you all the way out here for?” Jack leaned back on the desk as he lit a cigarette, gingerly placing it between his lips. “You look… awfully young,” he insisted, exhaling a smokey breath in Boris’ direction.

The room was cramped and even hotter than the club area. Filing cabinets overflowing with papers lined the wall, an odd array of club lighting and decor littered the floor, and the desk was positively overflowing from papers to personal articles, clothing and half eaten packages of food. The only thing put together in the whole place was Jack himself, with sleek clothing, smooth clean hair and not a drop of sweat on him.

Boris knew this game but his head was starting to spin from the heat. Turning his head, he looked for something to grab onto. It must have been a solid one hundred and ten degrees in the tiny office. Casually, so as not to seem eager to leave, Boris took one fluid step back towards a cabinet he could lean on. Then he tried to remember why he had come in the first place.

Jack cocked his head and shifted to lean slightly closer to the raven haired boy. “Boris, you said?”

He ran a hand through his hair, rubbed the back of his neck and tried to get his bearings. If he didn’t know any better he would have thought he was high, but in all reality he was severely dehydrated. “Yes. Here to… uh… collect—“

“Why don’t you sit down,” his voice was smooth, inviting, long fingers tapped the back of a very comfortable looking chair- but something in Boris told him no and he shook his head. Even dizzier then before, he put a hand out to brace himself, eyes falling shut.

Suddenly he felt the tip of a long finger tracing down his neck and his eyes went wide. Jack had stood up, moved towards him and Boris realized he was blocking the exit.His fingers pulled at the silver chain that fell low in the middle of his chest. “What’s this?” Boris’ heart was racing, he told his body to move, but he was frozen to the spot, “How beautiful— belong to someone special?”

“You could say that,” he choked out. Boris knew he had to get out of there. In his dizzy drunken-like state, he slid around Jack towards the door, grasping the knob, the smooth metal slip-sliding in his sweaty hands. A quiet chuckle pierced the heavy air.

“No AC? In Vegas? In summer?!” Boris hated the sun. He hated the heat, and he hated how fucked up he felt in that moment, how altogether helpless he was. For the first time since the night Theo had left, Boris felt terrified.

“Where are you going, Boris?” His voice was far too cool and collected like he wasn’t even human. “Don’t we have _business_ to attend to?” Desperately, Boris tried to turn the knob but, like in a dream, his limbs were like jelly- weak and utterly useless.

The door suddenly swung open nearly knocking Boris right on his ass. Ed! Ed had saved him. Boris used the last ounce of his strength to zip around Ed and get the hell out of there. He jumped into the black Honda Civic, used, that Mr. Silver had leant him for the job. Immediately he locked the door and cranked the AC all the way up. Laying his head back on the seat, eyes closed tight, he gripped the emeralds protectively in his right hand, knuckles turning white, fingernails digging into his palm. Mr. Silver would be pissed that he hadn’t collected the money Jack Payne owed him, but there was no way Boris was going back in there.

With a shaking hand he brought the emeralds up to his lips kissing the green stones. In the mercifully cold air of the car, the sweat coating his skin had begun to dry and his body shook as he felt a warm water drop roll down his cheek.

___________________________________

A cold harsh light assaulted the eyes of the broken boy. “Mother fuck,” Theo cursed, covering his eyes with an arm only to wince and intake a sharp inhale of breath. He heard someone stir beside him.

“Theo? Ah, you’re awake.” A very sleepy Hobie, who had clearly just awoken, sat up slowly, working the kinks out of his back and neck as he leaned forward towards the hospital bed. “How do you feel?”

He groaned and rolled his head to the side, looking away from Hobie. “Not the best. Everything hurts. My head feels like it’s going to explode. My nose- oh my god, Hobie, it’s hurts so bad.”

“The doctor said it’s broken, Theo. Do you remember what happened?” He only groaned in response, patting his hand around the bed, the bedside table, as if looking for something.

Hobie stood, reaching to still Theo’s hand, “What do you need? Let me help.”

Cheeks on fire with frustration and pain, Theo rolled his head toward Hobie and spoke just above a whisper, “My glasses, where are my glasses?” The blurry vision only served to increase his already blaring headache.

Hobie looked around, already knowing they weren’t in the hospital room. “Let me see if the nurse has your things. They won’t release anything to me…not family—“ his voice trailed off hesitantly as he pressed the button to call the nurse, calmly making his way towards the door.

Theo took the moment alone to take stock of his surroundings- everything was white, an iv was sticking out of his arm, machines beeping. Carefully he lifted his head to find his torso bandaged and his hand wrapped up in gauze. It hit him- the memory came back in a flood, the glasses had been in his hand, crushed when he fell, glass piercing his palm. “Hobie-“

The older man turned to look at his pseudo son in his dire state, concern painting his face. “Hobie, they broke. Fuck- I can’t see,” Theo huffed, frustrated and in pain. Hobie came to his side, plucking his own glasses from his shirt pocket.

Extending the frames toward the bedridden boy he said, “Try these Theo.” With a bandaged hand, he slid the glasses up the bridge of his nose, only to find the world a whole different kind of fuzzy. Suddenly the nausea took over and Theo leaned over the bed rail to hurl on the ground.

“Fuck!” He cried as he had leaned into his bruised up ribcage, sending a jolting pain up through his chest. “I’m so sorry-“

Taking the glasses back, Hobie handed him a tissue to wipe his mouth and gently ran a hand through Theo’s hair to help calm him just as the nurse entered the room. “Nurse Anne, would it be possible to get Theo some pain medication? He’s been struggling a lot since he woke up.” Smiling sweetly, she nodded, heading off to get the medicine.

“Hobie! Hobie, what happened to Andy!?” How could he forget- the fight, the slurs, him and Andy on the ground. “Is he okay!?” Overcome, Theo was grabbing at Hobie’s arm, desperately searching for comfort, for answers.

“Shhh, it’s okay, Theo. Andy is alright. I spoke with Mrs. Barbour on the phone- he’s a little bruised up, but in much better shape than you. He didn’t even need to go to the hospital. He said you protected him.” After a brief pause, Hobie looked down, nervousness plain on his face as he carefully held Theo’s arm in one hand and the top of his head in the other. “I’m so proud of you, Theo.”

Warmth rushed over his body as he lay staring at the ceiling back in his own bed next to his dog. The doctor had prescribed Vicodin, to which Theo was no stranger, and he felt delightfully punch-drunk. It took him back to his time with Boris, when the world seemed to stop and it was just the two of them making up their own rules and living on the edge of sanity. He hardly knew what Vicodin was until he met Boris. As his mind wandered to his long lost friend something Hobie had said months ago struck a chord. _Xandra._ She might at least have an idea of what happened to Boris. Theo had never even considered calling her before that moment. Like a drunken sailor getting tangled in a net, as he attempted to leave the bed, he managed to get tangled in blankets and the small, yelping Popchik, falling to the ground with a thud.

Everything was so soft and warm around him, he felt no pain at all. Fumbling around on the night stand, he felt for his phone, which his hand eventually landed on. _What was the number?_ Surely he remembered the number for the house he had lived in for two years. He could do it, he knew he could. As he sat up leaning against the bed frame, finally the digits came to him. Slowly, deliberately, almost too aggressively he punched the numbers and the phone began to ring.

Gradually his stomach turned over, butterflies erupting up into his chest. He wasn’t even sure he could form a proper sentence let alone speak to the woman he had robbed only to ask her where his alcoholic, drug addicted best friend had gone off to. But in his drug addled brain, there was no turning back now. He had already hit ‘call’.

“Hello?” Came the scratchy deep voice of Xandra.

“Is Boris… What happened to Boris?”

A pause, “Theo is that you? Why the fuck are you calling me?”

“Where’s Boris!?” It came out angrier than he intended but at this point he had very little control over his actions.

“Fuck! He lives here with me, why? You want to talk to him?” He heard her mutter under her breath _fucking kids._

His heart stopped- Boris was _there?_ With Xandra? Had he been there the whole time?

All he could manage to choke out was a dumbstruck, “what?”

“You wanna talk to him or not, kid? I’ve got shit to do,” her patience was wearing thin but Theo was freaking out inside.

“Uh… sure.”

A shout rang loud through the phone as she called for Boris. Theo had to pull the phone away from his ear. As he waited he wondered what he would even say. What could he say? Would be angry? Would he just be happy to hear Boris’ voice? His mind in its Vicodin haze was totally empty as he sat in uncomfortable anticipation.

‘ _Here, it’s for you.’_ He heard Xandra say, not telling Boris it was him.

“Hello?” Was all it took for Theo’s heart to drop into his foot. That accent that had colored nearly every day for two years, the voice that had calmed him from the worst of his nightmares.

It was too much. “Boris—“ he barely spoke above a whisper.

“Shit!” Click and the line was dead.


	3. The Phone Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boris and Theo finally have that phone call.
> 
> Sorry this took 8000 years to write. I was stuck. Also sorry about the google translate... I don't speak Russian.   
> Enjoy!

The tile beneath him felt warm as the late afternoon light, golden and heavy, fell across his face. The drum beat of his heart pounded faster than the vibrating wings of a hummingbird. Inhaling long, deep breaths, Boris tried to slow his pulse. The ringing in his ears made it nearly impossible to think about what had just happened. Immediately after hanging up on Theo (t _hat was definitely Theo, right?)_ Boris had crashed to the ground, curling his long legs up to his chest, his back against the kitchen island. He needed to think.

He threaded his boney fingers through the curls falling across his face and tugged, the pressure helping calm him down. After a year of dreaming, a year of deep regret for what he’d done, a year of constant distraction, Theo had called, on the phone. _He called._ That must mean he actually _wanted_ to talk to Boris- a world shattering realization. It was completely inconceivable to him that Theo would want to talk to him after what he had done. He clutched the emeralds in his hand, bringing them up to his lips as he’d become accustomed to doing in times of stress. The stones had become a sort of coping mechanism. Bringing them to his lips, thinking about Theo- it calmed him in situations that were more than he could handle or beyond his control.

Footsteps brought him crashing back to earth. “I need something from the cabinet, move,” Xandra’s voice was as warm as ever. Boris slid off to the side, finding a different cabinet to lean against as Xandra crouched down where he had been.

“Did he say why he called?” Boris asked, speaking much clearer and calmer than he felt.

She looked at him like he had two heads, “Didn’t you _just_ talk to him?”

“Eh— not so much…” he spoke quietly, fatigued, running a hand through his hair again.

“Well, don’t ask me. That’s why I gave _you_ the phone. I couldn’t care less what you little shits are up to.” She found what she was looking for and stood up to leave, taking one last exasperated look in Boris’ direction. “If you want to talk to him again, just call him back. We _have_ caller ID.”

The young man’s eyes lit up with equal parts fear and excitement. Having rarely had occasion to use the house phone, he had no idea he’d be able to call back without knowing the number. His excitement was, however, short lived. He had just hung up on Theo, would he even answer? Was it worth trying?

As quickly as the thought crossed his mind he was standing up, leaning over the countertop, hitting the redial button, the phone was ringing and for someone who lived life with reckless abandon, rarely stopping to even entertain the thought of fear, Boris was scared shitless.

“What the fuck, Boris!?”

It was definitely Theo.

In his typical upbeat voice he responded, “Potter, is good to—“

“Shut up, Boris.” Where Theo had sounded hesitant the first time he had called, now his tone was full of a confident anger and Boris could practically see the red crawling up his cheeks. He knew exactly what was coming and he wasn’t ready. “What the fuck did you do? Why? How— how could you!?” His voice quieted, cracking a little as spoke.

This is what Boris had feared- hearing the heartbreak of betrayal in Theo’s voice, anger that reminded him of his father on his worst nights. He hated that he had caused that for his best friend, that he had, without much care at all, taken the thing Theo loved most in the world. It was all his fault and there was no point hiding it.

“Theo, am so sorry, I—“

“You’re sorry? Do you know what you stole? Do you know how to protect it? Have you already sold it off?” The words came out fast and angry, then he paused. For a moment nothing was said, hardly a breathe was heard from one end of the line to the other. Boris swallowed hard.

“You didn’t, Boris. Tell me you didn’t…” Theo’s voice was quieter this time, disbelieving. Boris covered his mouth suddenly, choking back a sob.

“Theo, is complicated,” he said softly, barely above a whisper. Shamefully he looked down at the track marks on his arm, the bruises reminding him of the euphoric high as well as the trauma that lead to seeking it out.

_________

Several months prior Boris had brought some of the other kids from school, which he barely attended, to a club Mr. Silver owned and allowed him to party at with friends on occasion. As he had taken to doing, he found a table in the back where he would pour out two shots of vodka at a time, proceed to drink both in quick succession, and repeat until the loud, crowded club felt less lonely. Sometimes, after several shots, he’d regain his vibrance and join the others dancing and drinking until he could barely remember how to call a car home.

This particular night the loneliness wasn’t subsiding no matter how much he drank and his desire to party had disappeared entirely. On one of his errands for Mr. Silver that day he had seen a blonde boy that looked so much like Theo he had shouted _Hey, Potter! e_ xcitedly only to be met with a curt glance and the boy quickly shuffling away. He took care of the all consuming depression the way he always had- alcohol and anything else he could get his hands on.

He was half a bottle deep in vodka, eyes unfocused and staring aimlessly at nothing when Jack Payne appeared out of nowhere and casually took a seat across the table from Boris. Immediately he perked up, far more alert than he had been moments prior. “Leave,” was all he could get out. One ringed hand slid slowly off the table down to his pocket where he had begun carrying a small knife for just such events.

The older man dropped his elbows on the table, chin resting on both hands, long black hair framing him in such a way that his head appeared to be floating, and an unsettling smile reached all he way up to his ears. “Oh but you look so lonely over here, красивый мальчик.”

Boris, who had dropped his eyes to the shot glass in front of him looked up surprised to hear his native tongue spoken. “Ty govorish' po-russki?” He tilted his head curiously as he tugged his hair out of his eyes.

“Я-полиглот,” he spoke smoothly without so much as an accent as he reached across the table, taking an empty shot glass and the bottle of vodka, helping himself to a drink. “Why do you have two glasses? Waiting for someone?” Boris watched his eyes flick down to the emeralds hanging over his heart. “For your lady love?”

He felt exposed with Jack’s eyes on the stones, taking another shot instead of replying. His hand moved to clutch the earring-turned-pendant in his hands, effectively hiding it. “Come on- what reason can a young, attractive man have for sitting all alone, drinking himself to death on a Saturday night?”

Gripping the table with one hand, he looked to the floor as if it would help him run away. Desperately he wanted to get the fuck out of there, but he knew standing wasn’t currently an option as the room was already spinning. Instead, he gave up and took another shot. “Don’t feel like being there,” he mumbled gesturing to the dance floor, “don’t want to be here,” he finished, rapping his knuckles on the side of his head.

“And you miss someone.” It wasn’t a question and Boris couldn’t help but nod.

Before he knew what was happening he was being lifted by his arm up towards the bathrooms. Instinctively he reached for the bottle of vodka but only succeeded in knocking it over, the clink of the glass against the table sounding like a gun shot in his ears. His head spun as his legs moved in one direction while his mind begged him to go another. “What— where?” Words weren’t coming to him as Jack pushed open the bathroom door, turning and locking it as soon as they were both inside. Panic set in as he frantically took stock of the small, dark room. “No—“ he groped around for the sink to steady himself and pull away from Jack’s grip.

To his surprise Jack let him go easily as he pulled a plastic bag out of a satchel he hadn’t noticed before. “Alcohol isn’t going to help you feel better, Boris, but I have something that will.”

Bony fingers, knuckles turning white, gripped the edge of the sink like a drowning sailor gripping a life raft as his eyes followed Jack’s movements. Boris had seen people do heroin but had never tried it himself. He watched as Jack prepared a syringe. “This will make you forget the thing in your head you are running from. You will feel like you are flying.” In his drunken state, despite his uneasiness at the situation he was in, Boris thought it sounded nice to feel like he was flying.

Then, all at once, Jack was taking off his belt, and the fear returned. Boris backed up until he hit the painted black brick wall. With nowhere else to go, he looked away. Jack took his arm with more tenderness than Boris expected him capable of. Slowly he turned his head to see- feeling to his limbs had long since gone with the alcohol- as Jack was tightening the belt around his arm it clicked in his muddled brain. He flinched as the syringe pierced his skin, drew out blood, and then shot it all back into his vein.

_________

“Jesus Christ, Boris! You asshole, you sold it!? You sold a fucking priceless work of art, a goddamn masterpiece? For what? What did you even get for it?” Boris and Theo had fought a lot when they lived together in Vegas, but this deep seated anger was new, his voice so raw made Boris flinch on the other end of the phone.

He pushed a hand back up into his curls as he choked out, “Not sold. A—“ he paused, unsure of how to say it, “friend is holding it temporarily.”

_________

“красивый мальчик,” Jack grinned touching Boris’ cheek with just the tips of his fingers, “You owe me so much already. I want to give you everything you desire but I’m going to need you to start paying me back- one way or another.” As he spoke he drew his fingers down Boris’ long white neck, tracing along his exposed collarbone.

This time he didn’t flinch away but rather hoped giving Jack a little bit of what he wanted would sway him. “Just a little, only want a little.” The taller man pulled a small bag of white powder from his pocket waving it in front of Boris. As the 17 year old made to grab at the bag, Jack held it up and out of reach.

“No more handouts, Boris.” Eyes dark and frightening, he pulled Boris closer by the collar of his shirt. “How would you like to pay?” Boris could feel his breath hot over his skin, but he kept his cool as he wriggled out of Jack’s grasp.

With little hesitation he replied, “Have something to settle debt, until I have money to pay back everything.” Jack had been getting antsy about payment for all the heroin he’d been supplying Boris with so this time he came prepared. He reached for the bag he had brought with him and slowly pulled out the painting, wrapped carefully in a cloth.

_________

“What does that even mean, Boris?” Theo was clearly exasperated.

“I do not have it, but I know where it is. Potter, please—“

“Don’t, Boris. And you know what? Fuck you!” With that, Theo hung up the phone.

Both boys sat in their respective homes, Boris against the worn, cheap wooden kitchen cabinets, Theo scrunched up on the floor against the antique mahogany bed frame. Both held a phone in one hand, a token in the other. With a white knuckled grip Boris held on to the emeralds for dear life as an unwelcome, silent tear rolled down his cheek. In the darkness of his bedroom, Theo had reached into the nightstand and pulled out the civics book wrapped in Boris’ shirt, hugging it tightly to his chest, unable to cry anymore than he already had in the year that had passed between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> красивый мальчик- beautiful boy  
> ты говоришь по-русски?- you speak russian?  
> Я-полиглот- i speak many languages


End file.
